


Songbird

by truculentTruncheo



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Genderbend, Kidnapping, Lets go lesbians!!!, Red Leader Tori, Slow Burn, War, also this is about the cartoon characters and not the real people!! :>, also you have to deal with the fact that ive always wanted to live on a boat, angst with a little bit of crack, attempted humor, bastard x bastard energy, i'm american i don't know hardly anything about europe but i'll try my best!!!, sexual scenarios and implications, some suicidal thoughts but it's not a major focus!, there will be lots of bird analogies, they beat each other up a lot, yandere-ish Tori, youtuber Tamara
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22926217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truculentTruncheo/pseuds/truculentTruncheo
Summary: Tamara: Writes Mean Songs About ToriTori, An Actual Military Leader, Completely Infatuated: lol ur gay XD XD XDIn the cradle of war, Tamara has become the voice of the resistance-- literally. Tori can't stop listening to her music, even though it's basically all about how much she sucks.-also up on Wattpad-
Relationships: Ell & Matilda & Tamara, Patryck & Paul (Eddsworld), Patryck/Paul (Eddsworld), Tamara/Tori (Eddsworld), Tom/Tord (Eddsworld), maybe also - Relationship
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	1. Backstori

**Author's Note:**

> HEADCANON FOR TAM’S SINGING VOICE + THE INSPIRATION FOR THIS FIC: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDwVkXVHIqg
> 
> hey there! i don’t know nothin bout show biz or bass playing or europe, so if anything seems unrealistic, or if you have some cool facts to share, please feel free to hit me up in the comments!!! :DDDD also, u can imagine them as any age but here i personally thought of them as early twenties! I’m hoping this will be pretty long, but since i’m in school, i can’t promise i’ll finish it very fast! i hope u like it!!! Let’s go lesbians!!!! :DDD
> 
> oh also, here's my tumblr! :D : https://versace-will-never-be-the-same.tumblr.com/

PROLOGUE: The Backs...Tori. (I KNOW, I KNOW) 

TAM

Shitty microphone, clumsy fingers, and old, duct-taped Sampson; that’d been how it started. Her first video-- almost immediately deleted in a fit of shame-- was as typically _edgy teenager with an instrument and a youTube channel_ as it could have possibly been, something or other about drugs, existentialism, and a mind-controlling Santa Clause, to the tune of five of the most basic chord combos that make every beginner feel like a time-tried rockstar. 

The channel endured a good number of phases; from immature parodies to ska covers, from cringy lyrics to autotune hell, from quitting to apologetically returning to quitting again, from hating the world to loving her friends, and from so, _so_ many _complicated_ fricking _feelings_ for that dumbass squidfucker Tori to one, fervent sentiment of betrayal, which would come to dominate the spirit of any song she ever wrote again, producing such cherished classics as “You Literally Blew Up My House,” “Those Red Commies Are Sleazy Mofos,” and, a personal favorite of hers, “Tori You Fucking Weeb, Eat Shit.” 

When Tori left the first time, way back when, Tamara’s melodies had been plagued by an underlying, unshakable current of angsty wistfulness. If she couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t even _think_ about it, her bass would have to sort through the emotional bedlam _for_ her. Late at night she’d sneak off to this bigass Catholic church that had this whole ego-boner schtick about being open to the public 24/7. The empty halls and candles galore had worked well enough for Tam’s purposes. She’d barricade herself in the low-key-probably-haunted choir room, take a swig of Smirnoff, and strum her friggin heart out to Jesus. 

Nothing ever explicitly mentioned Tori, at that point-- Tamara could never admit, would never dare to admit the impact she’d had, it wasn't supposed to _hurt_ like this, they weren’t even friends-- but everything was _pretty much_ completely one-hundred-percent about her. A subconscious voice, buried deep inside, had whispered hope that Tori was out there, wherever the hell she was, watching her videos, humming along to her songs. _Feeling_ what Tamara could never express she felt in any other way. (spoiler alert: Tori never fucking cared) 

But when Tori had come back-- when she was once again tangible, no longer a martyr of what could have been but instead a reason to wish it’d never happened at all-- when Tori had croned out sweet lies, devilish taunts, malicious pranks and Tam had still been _stupid_ enough to hope-- _hope, hope, hope, but for what_ \-- when she’d poked her cheek (why’d you blush, _stupid Tam?_ ) and passed her her helmet (what’d she expect from that, honestly; when was Tori ever just _nice_ ?) and crushed her under the sofa (a unique sensation. -5/10 recommended)-- and it was _too damn_ much. Ell and Matilda and Tori got along just fine. On their _own_. Tamara was the only one reeling, the only one imploding under the psychological weight of circumstance and emotions so suppressed they’d almost disappeared. So she did what she’d been doing best: she pretended she didn’t care. She left. Bought a new place. Disappeared. Alone.

She could deal with that.

But when she saw Tori’s face, chiseled and goofy and dead-eyed, plastered on a shop-front window, wanted for _war crimes_ \-- and she knew, she knew in the pit of her stomach that nothing would ever be right again-- she had raced back to their home in a furious panic, blasted through the door to her old room-- _their_ old room-- and found Tori there, but not any Tori she’d seen before. It was a version of Tori that was completely true-- a version of Tori that was ruthless, and cunning. “Oh, just this hat!”--admittedly, that hat was bitching-- and a smug grin and a laugh like some freaking anime character-- and then, faster than she could process anything, the rockets, _the rockets_ , rockets that were meant to _kill Tamara_.

And just like that, there wasn’t any more room for _longing_ or _confusion_ or the _nostalgic good old times_ ; there was only room for animus, pure and resolute. And, her badass harpoon gun, but that was beside the... point. Fucking hell, Ell! 

She saved two of her friends that day. 

_“I’m not your friend!”_

But one, she lost forever. 

She couldn’t play for months, even after the injuries healed. Every time she tried, her fingers would lock around the neck like she wished it was her own. It was easier to live in alcohol, to live in risk, to live for her friends, all barricades between her and memories far too intense for a coward to face. Instead she quipped and drank and adventured and kept “...waking up in the weirdest places, you’re going to shit yourself when you hear what happened this time, Ell…” but, inevitably, as a period of hazy drunken avoidance is wont to conclude, it all came crashing down in a clusterfuck of tears, broken bottles, and epiphanies-- the night Norway surrendered under the might of the Red Army (buncha clowns). 

It was that night, clear, with a taste of salt in the air, that she once again found the purity of feeling she had known in the seconds before shooting down the genocidal otaku that haunted her nightmares. It was that night that she could play again, and could play about one thing only. It was that night that this chapter of her life was to begin. 

She found it simultaneously idiotic, utterly devastating, and _‘ugh duh’_ appropriate that it was because of Tori that Tamara had gained this _real,_ on the news, big paycheck, sometimes-people-recognize-you-on-your-two a.m.-alcohol-runs-and-it-really-blows kind of cultural relevance. Thousands of people knew her music, were fueled by their shared hatred of the Red Leader, fueled by something more intimate to her and Ell and Matilda than anyone else. It was too much--saw a pillow case with her body on it once-- and never enough--Where’s the action? Where’s the change? Where’s _Tori_ ?-- at the same time.

She has no idea how to live normally anymore. Bought a small boat, shoots at floating plastic bottles on the horizon and pretends they're _her_. Stares in the mirror hoping to see someone capable looking back. She rarely even visits her friends anymore-- what if people saw them together, what if this put them in danger? If people knew the relationship the Red Leader had had with the trio, their lives could be in peril. No matter what, everything tied back to Tori. She was everywhere Tamara turned. Would she have ever been successful on her own, in an alternate universe, a universe where she made music for _fun_ , if Tori hadn’t gone and fucked up half of Europe? Hadn’t broken hearts and murdered thousands for some self-important, false-righteous ideal? Hadn’t filled the world with the same contempt, fear, and admiration Tam has held for her since the first fateful moment their fists met? 

Nonetheless, she wouldn’t be bothering with this dumpster fire of a career if she didn’t get anything out of it; Tam’s never been the ambitious type, not to mention the soul-sucking nature of the industry. She churns out number after number with steadfast determination for one reason and one reason only-- the satisfaction of knowing that the more popular she becomes, the more she’s trending on Spotify or Apple or whatever, the more punks are chanting poor renditions of her songs at pubs, verses dedicated to picking apart and pulverizing the iron-fisted symbol of _Red Leader_ that Tori has worked so hard to cultivate, the more Tori will be forced to acknowledge-- first-- how much she absolutely sucks ass and-- second-- Tamara’s undying resentment towards her.

Sure, it’s not a rebel army like Ell draws pictures of but never does anything about, or a nighttime ninja assassination attempt like Matilda thinks would be 'sooooo coool,' and then, 'what were we talking about? I hope it was me!' But the music is an act of defiance just the same-- Tamara’s own pathetic brand of it. 

  
  



	2. All About That Bass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please forgive me for the chapter theme lmao: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvO0vIakhb0  
> Fun fact! I grew up on a U.S. military base, so some (just a little itty teensy bit lol) of the design comes from my actual experience! ;> otherwise this chapter is basically ??? somethin lmao  
> Please dont hesitate to hit me up on tumblr! :D https://versace-will-never-be-the-same.tumblr.com/  
> We can talk about tomtord and pretty girls lol  
> Thanks to everyone who read/ left kudos / commented on the prologue!!! ’m glad you enjoyed it!! ^v^ i enjoy you~ ;)))) if u can’t think of a comment, just pick your favorite quote and paste it down below!!! :333 id love to know what u guys think!!!  
> 

CHAPTER ONE: All About That Bass

TORI 

Norway. Russia. Sweden. Finland, Estonia. Latvia. Lithuania. Poland, Belarus, Moldova. Ukraine. 

In just four years, these countries have been united as one-- the Red Federation of Allied Communist States, birthed in a glorious uprising of the people, who were long dissatisfied by the shortcomings of society, of false promises of riches, of the awful, lying politicians, and of the irresponsible, unforgivable destruction of natural resources. 

At the helm of the revolution was a young girl, courageous and sedulous, never fearing the dirt beneath her nails. Under her virtuous, prodigal guidance, the people are taking back what is rightfully theirs. This young girl-- this messiah-- was Tori Jansson. With time and wounds and strife, she has grown to be revered as the Red Leader. 

The Red Leader is made of metal, stronger than ten-thousand soldiers marching in unison. The Red Leader is razor-sharp genius, crackling wires and giant, fearsome robots demolishing the countryside. The Red Leader is all-seeing and all-knowing, has the planet poised between her steely claws, gouging out the marks of an inevitable subjugation. The Red Leader is _Lucifer_ \-- charismatic, cruel, and blood-thirsty-- and _god_ \-- mighty, righteous, and firm-- in one, hecking hot body. 

**_crzygirla20_ ** _at 1:03 AM_

hey cute. 

**_norski7u7_ ** _at 1:05 AM_

send nudes ;)

**_crzygirla20_ ** _Left the conversation at 1:06 AM_

**_norski7u7_ ** _at 1:06 AM_

>:( 

But, most of all, the Red Leader is angry. 

She takes out a gun-- one of many, positioned surreptitiously around the quarters-- from a trick drawer under her desk and fires two consecutive shots into the laptop, which shatter the screen upon impact and send the device skidding backwards into the wall, knocking over a line of anime figurines and an ass-shaped mug, home to chewed pens and a few miscellaneous pieces of trash, which then breaks as well, smacking against the grimy floor. Hints of smoke rise from the wreckage and the heavy thumping of boots on staircase can just barely be discerned through the ringing in her ears.

Oh, _right_. The bodyguards. 

“Red Leader,” cries Pauline-- chauffeur and bodyguard to the Red Leader, thick in heart, mind, and eyebrow-- bursting through the door, frantically scoping the scene for hazard or peril. “What’s the situation?” 

“I might guess, from current clues and past trends,” chimes in Patricia-- coordinator and bodyguard to the Red Leader, neat, perceptive, and quippy-- following behind at a slightly slower pace. “That we are for the third time this month being subjected to a late night ‘drill.’”

The red-faced Red Leader pockets the firearm and places her arms behind her back, turning to address her subordinates, one of which still appears alarmed to the possibility of danger. 

“At ease. Pat is correct.” She straightens, bullshitting mode activated. “I always say, you have to be ready for anything! This has been, ah,” she paces to the other end of the room, tracing various bullet-shaped holes in the wall with her robotic limb, “another, in a series of tests of diligence, of bravery, and of fortitude. Your performance continues to be adequate!”

She fishes around in her coat for a while, searching for something. After a few moments during which the two adjacent women pretend like no moments are passing, she stops, satisfied, and pulls out one packaged candy, colored a bright, fluorescent yellow. A wide grin stretches across the unscarred half of her face as she waves the candy around like a prize. 

“Have some candy! It’s lemon-- you like lemon, yes?”

They all stare at each other. No one likes lemon. 

Pauline steps forward. "Pat's favorite.” 

Patricia’s glare is accentuated by the dark circles under her eyes, and usually very smooth hair pointing in a multitude of unusual directions. Pauline does not notice the glare, swaying in place, not completely present. Each of the three soldiers wears the marks of exhaustion. But perhaps, Red Leader most egregiously so, if not by appearance, then certainly by temper. The plight of war is demanding and vicious, but with the burning quintessence of will, they persist. 

The Red Leader sighs, stowing the candy away, for no real purpose. _She_ isn’t going to eat it. “Never mind. Go back to bed now.” 

Pauline salutes and exits, but Patricia lingers behind. She has that perpetual look on her face like she thinks she knows more than she should. “Permission to break formality and call out your distress, Red Leader?” 

The Red Leader sticks out her tongue and itches under the eyepatch that hides her blind eye. “What distress? Everything is fine, Pat, as long as we are still having bacon for breakfast tomorrow.” 

Patricia frowns. “Of course, Red Leader.” Before she is completely gone, she pauses once more. “You are aware, we have pills for this sort of--”

“Obviously! Leave!” 

When finally, she is alone, the Red Leader-- or Tori, in private minutes like these-- collapses onto her unmade bed, kicking aside a quarter-eaten bag of doritos. An odor that can only be described as ‘dirty sock’ permeates the air. Papers of all sorts of shapes, shades, and contents litter the ground and desk and some of the bed, too. The skin around the socket where her prosthetic is attached throbs, but, with the power it provides in mind, she won’t take it off right now. 

Sighing, Tori cuddles up to a Hatsune Miku doll with which to brave the treacherous battle of the night. There would be many more hours to swallow before the bludgeon of sleep would grace these nasty chambers. What to do, what to do..? Tori looks at the laptop. 

The laptop does not look back, for it has perished. And was inanimate in the first place. She’ll repair it tomorrow. 

She thinks of machines, of upgrades for her arm and plasma cannons and tanks with legs and radiation chambers suspending matter in time. A half hour. No windows. She thinks of the war, of blood and chaos and thrill and control. Forty minutes. It’s quiet. She thinks of soft, voluptuous breasts and bad voice acting and Marge Simpson and slime monsters. She stops checking the time, shifts to her side. She thinks of bacon, sweet and tender. 

What a waste. Her good eye opens and closes. What is she wearing? Still her coat. She would take action, any sort of action, but-- but she can hardly move. Stuck on a precipice between living and dreaming, drifting in and out but never wholly. She has a lighter on her night stand, but no cigar. 

How pitiful she is in the darkness, drunk on the mead of time. Reminds her of… She grimaces, or maybe she thinks about grimacing. Those idiots. _That_ idiot. 

Everyone needs an obstacle, she supposes. Otherwise, triumph would be unsatisfying. For all that she has taken, for all that she has crushed this feeble world under her heel-- she can put up with a little restlessness. 

She sinks and sinks, until she can no longer breathe, and just when everything fades at last, her alarm clock rattles with the impetus of a tornado siren and she rockets out of the bed like a jack in the box, propelled ever forwards into the illustrious light of day. Except, not literally, because, as noted before, there are no windows here. 

She inhales.

Yonder, from what heaven, is that the aroma of breakfast? 

Her mornings are methodical, almost always the same. At six thirty, she wakes--or, _gets up_ , on the frequent occasion she wasn’t asleep in the first place. Patricia and Pauline are waiting for her in the first story kitchen, with bacon and some other, less important food items. Patricia reads a newspaper and Pauline makes faces with-- and at-- her meal. 

“Mm, Pauline,” Patricia lowers the papers a couple of inches to peer at the chauffeur from across the table, “did you hear about this amazing new breakthrough in the cosmetic industry? I think they called it ‘twee-zers.’” 

“Oh, bugger off, Pat. You’re just jealous.” 

“Jealous of a ginormous walking chunk of facial hair? I think not.” 

The Red Leader does not usually say much of anything, too busy inhaling exorbitant amounts of coffee that would maybe be illegal if she weren’t in charge. But, she _is_ in charge, so whatever. 

From the inside, the basic, two-floor apartment may seem like any other in _Fort Frihet_ , if not for the lack of windows, abundance of anime posters, and occasional health-risk drop-bomb via unattended weapon or labelless chemical concoction. But it is much more than it appears. It is a marvel in fortification and engineering, designed by the Red Leader herself-- a labyrinth of futuristic machinery, buried fifty feet below the ground. 

From the outside, there is first a large, Roman-esque landmark building on top of a hill, then a decoy room, one window, red carpet, above ground; neatly decorated with a large, sprawling canopy bed-- always pristine-- fancy chalices--never been used-- and military souvenirs--ah, she _loved_ her hat-- among other miscellaneous objects sophisticated dictators may be expected to enjoy. By twisting the hat three quarters clockwise, one will be presented with a security panel, which responds only to the Red Leader’s bizarre and unreplicable fashion of licking. This is a highly unsanitary and degrading method. The panel doesn’t even taste good. 

This action unveils a secret ramp passageway under the bed which leads to another decoy room approximately ten feet beneath the surface. Sometimes-- when the Red Leader has the intense desire for solitude-- Patricia and Pauline stay here. Their personal effects are littered across the space, a packet of cigarettes on the footrest and a bottle of hairspray on the armoire. Through more shenaniganry-- no more licking, thankfully-- one may see that beneath this second decoy room is a state-of-the-art nuclear bunker, designed much like a maze, riddled with tunnels and chambers and confounding architecture, more than a small bit inspired by an amalgam of the Red Leader’s favorite movies and video games. 

At the core of this bunker is the apartment-- peeling floral wallpaper, two bedrooms, breakfast table, and, currently, the triad. They check the weather. Early spring, light snow. No need to take off her coat, then. 

They crawl up a ladder, Pauline in front, Patricia behind. Smells like rubber, probably because of the rubber. They shuffle into an elevator with fifty meaningless buttons. A glance in the mirror confirms that the Red Leader is, as always, looking like a supreme babe. She winks at herself, flexes her hard-earned muscles. _Yikes_ , she’s acting like... she winces. Patricia and Pauline pointedly do _not_ smirk. (They’ve had practice.) 

“Patricia, who am I seeing this morning?” As an emblem of camaraderie and equality; the Red Leader visits the morning drills of a different platoon each morning. If she takes pleasure in tripping enamored noobs or pinching backs when no one is looking, well, that’s entirely _her_ business. 

They are outside, and the chill scrapes down her throat, bites at the wires in her shoulder. They walk across a brick bridge, over a frozen pond. Non-functional cogs line the railing for aesthetic reasons. Large mechanical towers protrude from the treeline. Per command, the bodyguards linger at a certain distance away, guns ready. They’re cool, but she doesn’t want them messing with her vibe. 

Then the platoon. 

“In labor and strife, we are all equal!” 

Some are afraid, some are amazed; all are convinced she is something more than human.

Then a shower, fast and intense and slightly masturbatory, smoothing away the grime. 

“Bowsette-chan…” 

An intelligence briefing, in a wicked awesome steampunk skyscraper at the center of their small town. Fake plants to make them think of somewhere else. They don't hide the fortified gates visible from the top story window, or the soldiers patrolling the streets. 

“Romania’s front line is weakening…” 

An executive lunch meeting. They eat quite a lot of their own off-brand McDonalds. She chews as creepily as she can. Good burgers. 

“Pour more funding into…” 

An address to the public, aired daily without fail at fifteen hundred, the same time as _Doctor Why_. She dons a gladiator helmet that shields her face entirely, two large horns protruding from the top. Her robotic arm catches the light as she shakes her fists; a blood red cape billows behind her. 

“My old friends,” she teases every so often, as an afterthought. Or maybe she’d like it to be. “You must miss me terribly!” She feigns sadness to disguise the anger, a shake of the head. “But don’t worry. We’ll be reunited _soon enough_ .” Every hour, every minute, every second of the day, the army is inching eastwards. Oh, the _plans_ she has. Starting with _Cola_. 

She spends the first half of her evening strategizing with a team of officials, barking commands and drawing lines over maps, as the room clouds with nicotine smoke; the second half in one of a plethora of laboratory warehouses, industrial and chaotic, experimenting within a highly dubious realm of ethics. Clones, rockets, bombs. Poisons and serums and physical enhancements. Time travel, lasers, monsters. Her laptop, catgirls, and maybe a hentai tentacle plant on the side. 

Pauline drives her home, while Patricia recaps the events of the past twenty four hours. The seat is pleasantly warm. 

“Patricia. Pauline.” 

“Hm?” 

The Red Leader looks at her lap; oil stains her trousers. She cannot afford to be friendly. Thoughts go unsaid. 

They enter the house; she stays outside, leaning against a white pillar, staring up at the stars. She won’t sleep tonight either, she can tell. 

A sharp noise startles her into drawing her weapon; an instant later, she recognizes the noise as a meow. Stupid cat! She almost shot it. 

“Stupid cat! I almost shot you.” 

It’s gray, fairly skinny. As soon as their eyes meet, it runs away. Maybe not so stupid after all, then. 

The porn, she blasts-- rather inconsiderately-- at full volume. Every night it gets stranger and stranger as she falls further and further into a self-dug pit of depravity. On one tab, a giantess squeezes a woman between her huge knockers. On another, a ghost sucks the toes of unsuspecting victims. _Noice_ . Light from the screen paints shadows on the walls; Tori hones in on it like a moth to flame. Her lips are dry. Her temples ache. What she’d give for some relief-- but she’s not weak like that. Not like _her_. 

She blacks out for however long; when she comes to, the American president Donald Trump is railing Kermit the Frog. In a daze, she watches until it’s over. Golly, can that frog scream. 

She switches the laptop off, and drags her waifu Miku under the covers. 

“What do _you_ think, darling, hm?”

Miku says nothing. Silence consumes the dark. 

Weeks later, the Red Leader is taking a stroll through one of _Fort Frihet_ ’s neighborhoods, bordering a commissary. The area is baroque and compact; with a heavy cyberpunk aura. Barren rooftop gardens shimmer above her line of sight; empty from the cold. A little wind turbine creaks as it moves with random zephyrs. She sips on a strawberry milkshake. 

“Red Leader.” Pauline sounds upset. Her huge eyebrows are furrowed. 

“What is it, Pauline?” 

“There’s, uh… Okay, so there's pressing new information about one of your,” she pulls at the collar of her turtleneck awkwardly, “Persons of interest. You requested to be updated, so...” 

The Red Leader stops in her tracks. 

“Don’t be so vague, now, _soldier_. Who is it?”

Pauline gestures for Patricia to join her. Perhaps for moral support. When the two are together, Pauline continues. 

“It’s, uh,” her shoulders hunch in as though she's spitting out a hairball. Patricia elbows her in the ribs. “Tamara, Red Leader. It’s Tamara.” 

_No._

A round of--

“Shit--”

\--fire straight--

“--fucking--”

\--into the--

“--accursed--”

\--wind turbine--

“--horse cock--”

\--the propellers blasting off--

“--of satan.”

\-- and the central pole tips over. 

The Red Leader is so freaking angry her nostrils flare to the size of dinner plates. She demands answers in such rapid succession that the words slur together. “What has Jehovah done this time? Infiltrated the labs? Built her own army? Summoned Ghandi from the dead and signed us up for a wrestling match? I _knew_ one of _them_ would ruin this! I _knew_ they would do something _crazy_ ! I _knew_ and I still didn’t--” 

She bites her gun, muffling her shouts. She looks back up, hardened. 

“Everything I do, she always gets in my way. I should have aimed better.” 

Does she mean that? _Fuck!_

Patricia is the one to approach this time, hands up placatingly. They know what happened. They know what this means to her. They were _there_. “Red Leader, it’s nothing so detrimental as you’ve suggested, though it still could be trouble. I don’t know how to describe it, but--” 

Pauline interrupts, more confident now that the worst of the news has been aired. “She’s a singer.” 

...what? They both nod, encouraging each other. 

“Yes, our public relations team spotted her out. She’s grown popular on the media platform youTube, and seems to be gaining a wide influence.” 

How fittingly unpredictable. 

“What’s the relevance? Stop dancing. Explain more clearly.” 

“Right. Well,” Patricia takes out her phone, pulls up an image. A slightly older Tamara-- and isn’t it a shock just to _see_ her again?-- than the one she knew is center focus, dressed horribly in some distasteful checkered emo getup, dark pits for eyes drenched in messy mascara and at least four new shiny piercings poking their way out of her skin like little beacons that say 'i'm sad,' cradling a bass guitar. It’s not the same as the one she’d used to learn-- Sampson(?), silly name-- fingering out grumpy bouts of wrong notes. Tori’d made fun of her for ages. Tamara would go red and deflect, something like, _‘How many instruments do_ you _play, dickhead_ ?’ Good times. A banner hangs in the background, on which is a low-quality photograph of the Red Leader sneezing-- Ell had taken that one-- with a scribbled-on goatee and the phrase ‘major loser’ across her forehead. Arguably, that’s not the worst photo they could’ve used. “She writes songs about _you_ , Red Leader. Unflattering propaganda. She means to drag your name through the mud.” 

The Red Leader can’t help herself. A hysterical laugh flies out of her mouth and then another before she minds to catch it. 

“Classic _stupid_ Tam! You had me on guard for a second--” she wipes a tear from her eye. Fondles the picture. Tamara’s hips are fuller. More settled. And her _hair_ \-- “But this is so dumb it _hurts_ .” She tsks. “Next time just say it in one sentence, you two, _hell_!” 

“Yes, Red Leader. Sorry, Red Leader.” They apologize simultaneously. 

She hands the phone back with some reluctance. She hasn’t laughed like that in a while. “Dumb or not, this could still be bad. Send me pertinent details.” She uses her paper straw to impale the cherry at the bottom of her shake, bites into it. Sugar invades her senses. “Jehovah probably has an IQ in the negatives, but she's tricky. I’ll assess this myself. Expect orders tomorrow.” 

The rest of the day, it’s all she can think about. What waits for her? What is Tamara, now? It's new. It's intriguing. It's dangerous. Everything blurs. 

No moon this night. She stumbles once or twice. 

The cat lingers by the doorway. Tori scoots it away with her boot.

“You’ll be in the decoy room.” Patricia and Pauline seem relieved. Probably-- but not definitely-- related to the porn. 

And then it’s her and her eye bags and _TameeBear420,_ barricaded together with the lights off. The home page of Tam’s channel boasts an introductory video-- ‘Tori You Fucking Weeb, Eat Shit’--that starts automatically. Tori pauses it, not quite yet prepared for what lies ahead. She tucks Miku against her side and reaches for the doritos; they’re stale. She’s not going to get another bag, though. 

Of all her old friends, Jehovah had always been the one to look out for. And not just at her _tits_ or the ugly faces she’d make when she was flustered, either. Tam was observant and intuitive, distrustful by nature; she was usually too inebriated and complacent to do anything serious about it, but she’d kept an eye on Tori from the start. And when she did bother to do something serious-- she did something _serious_. Tori had wondered how far she could push Tamara. She traces the grooves of torn skin around her neck, recalling the explosion with a smile. She’d found out. 

Tamara’s weakness was Ell and Matilda-- she’d do anything to keep them happy, even if she’d never say that-- but it was also her strength. Tori pouts. It was dumb how _that_ worked. She’d thought she could get rid of Tam by pressuring her out of the group. It would have been a successful plot, if Tam had never found out she was the Red Leader, had never known she was a real threat. 

Tori had been wondering what Tamara might do next. If she would recover. If she would survive. If she would be _ruined_ forever. Had her on a list of people to be monitored, just in case. And now-- Tori snorts-- Jehovah’s a rockstar. Stupid girl. 

A very distant time ago, beyond a wall of memories, Tori can think of when a Tamara who still had pimples and braces started showing interest in making music. She would hum, until she knew someone was there. She would write lyrics in her skull notebook, cover them with her hands so no one could see. She bought her bass from a pawn shop, made out with it sometimes. _Ammunition_. But she was never particularly expressive, and Tori was never particularly invested. Tam was only good for riling up, for letting off steam. It was like Tam said, they were never really friends. 

But, they were something, something without a word. To devote an entire _career_ to _,_ to create _art_ for the sole purpose of tearing Tori down… Tori licks Dorito crumbs off her fingers. She feels warmer, unbuttons her coat, lets it fall from her broad back onto the mattress. 

It’ll be awful, she knows. Tam’s never lived a cringe-free day in her life. But Tori’s riled up, excited, ready to see what challenge Jehovah has to offer. She unpauses the video. It buffers. And then… 

Holy fuck. 

The _strings_ \-- 

_“Heard you have a certain palate…”_

Her voice-- her _voice_ \-- no, stop, 

_“Well you’ve got a special talent...”_

It should grate. It should burn. It should disgust. But it soothes, it cools. The foul room is gone. Becomes the ocean, the mist, the storm--

_“Never taking only throwing out the hits…”_

The waves, the salt, the thunder-- 

_“So eat shit, eat shit…”_

Each note rolls over her like a hurricane-- like a hurricane and the gentlest mountain stream, like Ophelia in the creek, two inches from life, like Captain Ahab on the sea, lost to obsession. What are these thoughts? Like lightning through the water, her heart jolts and lurches and tugs her into the rhythm. 

_“You rub your nub to anime girls..."_

This should be inducing winces of a massive degree. But it’s... hypnotic. Bewitching. They way Tam moves, head banging, teeth bared. 

_“Then shove a bomb in the center of the world...”_

The bass is an extension of Tamara's being. A conduit for some foreign magic ability. Low and sturdy. 

_“Maybe if England wears seifuku..._

There may be others in the video. Strangers. None of them compare. None of them matter like--

_"You’ll spare our lives..”_

The energy is primal, wild and fierce. She wants to tear the blanket to shreds. She wants to strangle idiot Tamara between her legs-- She wants to bury herself in a warm den and listen to the pitter patter of raindrops outside and never _ever_ leave--

_“Eat shit, eat shit...”_

And, in an abominable twist of fate, it’s over, quiet. The whiplash is unbearable. Maybe it's the exhaustion, maybe it's panic, maybe it's _true_ , but before she can think anything of it she clicks on another link, wraps her body in the melody. And another. And another. 

Tomorrow, _constantly_ tomorrow, she’ll ponder the implications of-- yes, tomorrow, tomorrow she can think, be regretful, but now-- but right now, she… Her eyelids yearn for each other, lovers torn apart too long-- 

Tonight, mind erased as though by a spell, she drifts into a sleep more sound than any as far back as she can remember. 


	3. Hot Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there u guys!! :D wow the time really flew by, this whole situation has been pretty hectic!! i hope ur all doin okay and staying safe <3  
> I CHANGED MY MIND I CHANGED MY MIND THIS IS THE NEW CHAPTER THEME SONG OMG: https://youtu.be/sFwOc4Qn56g  
> wanted to have some light stuff before it gets too heavy. what can i say, im a simp for friendship  
> edwardos grandmado is my favorite eddsworld character for some reason, so shes in here too lol.  
> thanks to everybody who left a comment, reading them makes me so happy!!! <3 come visit me at https://versace-will-never-be-the-same.tumblr.com/ if u wanna hang!!! ^3^ i love meeting new people!!

TORI 

The alarm slices through the fog of slumber like butter. Tori jolts straight up, tears off her blanket, and slams the blasted clock off its shelf. It continues its insufferable wailing. 

“Fuck.” 

What the fucking fuck was last night? Stupid fucking Tam, what the shit? The laptop is off; on its blank screen, her own greasy face stares back at her, panicked frown offering no solace. 

She sighs. 

“Congratulations, moron. You got my attention.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


TAMARA 

Sweat slick hair is pushed behind an ear which, at this point, is more earring than ear. Calloused fingers rake the strings of a bass guitar with no apparent orchestration. The resulting sound might have been jarring on another instrument but nearly any combination of notes sounds pretty enough on the bass. A murmured melody echoes off the walls of the choir room, saturated with far more curse words than should ever be allowed in a church. 

Tamara sits on the bottom row of a stand of bleachers meant for hymns. Her legs are sprawled far apart and the sharp edge of the row behind her sticks into her back. She’s lost in thought, though she’s been lost in worse things before.

How many more digs can Tamara make on Tori being an anime freak, she wonders. Dumb question, she could do that indefinitely. Could Tamara pull off a rap verse? Please, when has not being able to pull something off ever stopped her? Rap verse that shit up like it’s Christmas. And what rhymes with hentai? Actually, she doesn’t want to know. (Does she?) 

Back to the board. 

The room goes quiet except for the scritching of pencil on paper. Tori used to wear fake glue-on vampire teeth, probably still does. She’d deny it every time, claim they were ‘just like that,’ but it was, seriously, pretty obvious.

_Eating us out with halloween fangs_

She had a pair of oppai slippers. Disgusting. 

_Boob shoe money down the drain_

Oh, and don’t get Tamara started on the milk. She’d drink straight from the carton, right in front of everyone, holding eye contact with whoever was closest. Very obviously evil from the start. 

_Take a swig from their hearts, put them back in the fridge_

It’s funny enough when everyone thinks it’s parody. They’d lose their minds if they knew more than half the gibberish Tamara spews is true. On one hand, Tamara resents that she has to keep their affiliation a secret. To protect her dumb friends, if not herself. Not only would people lose their minds, they might just lose their heads, too-- turn against them, targeting them for their past. But what she’d give to have that edge over Tori, to tell everyone that what she knows, what Tori is really like, that it’s honest to god truth. One photograph of them together, one relic from before could put it all in the air. She’s pushing it as it is, though, edging a dangerous line. 

On the other hand, it’s easier this way. With figurative interpretations instead of literal. As one of the masses, someone who hates Tori for the normal reasons, and not the _bedroom down the hall_ reasons. It doesn’t have to be personal. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than ‘I hate your guts.’ 

Being scared for Ell and Matilda, understandable, but she’s certainly not scared for herself. She’d like to see that devil haired asshole try and stop her. She’d stand her ground as many times as it took. As many times as… her heart races, for a brief second running down those halls again, running to look death in its silver eye. She’s not scared. She’s not. Tori can’t do anything worse than she’s already done. Tori wears cosplay. Tori unironically says ‘sugoi.’ Tori geeks out over zombie pirate movies. But Tori betrayed them, too. Tried to kill her. Almost did. Tori saw through all of Tamara’s pretenses, knew exactly how to drive her crazy, knew that inside she was weaker than she let on. Tori could have-- But she didn’t. Because for every arrogant stunt Tori pulls, Tamara will give her one better. She’s keeping secrets for Ell and Matilda’s sake and nothing more, and that’s that. 

Footsteps clamber down the hall. Tamara shuts her notebook. If her chest grows tight and she holds her bass like a weapon for just a moment, imagining a wicked grin and calculating eyes, well, that’s between her and the ceiling tiles. The door creaks open and a small gray head pops through, spectacles so big they cover half his face. It’s just the weird old man again. She sets the bass aside. He’s okay, as far as weird old men go. 

“Good morning, young lady.” He waddles over like a wrinkled penguin, carrying a basket in his toothpick arms. “I brought you some breakfast.” It smells dreadful but she takes it, because, free food. 

“What time is it, weird old man?” She opens the basket, only to find what looks like a gelatin ocean massacre inside. “Never mind that, what the hell is this.” 

“Jellied eels, deary.” He turns his feeble head in her direction, shooting her something that could be described as a smile under all the skin. 

“Of course it is. Isn’t it supposed to be cold?” She takes a bite. It’s disgusting. She takes another bite. 

“You have a lovely singing voice.” He reaches for the pamphlet Tamara knows is in his pocket, wiry old hands trembling on their perilous journey. Ugh, this again. 

“If you ask me to join the dumb choir one more time, I’ll find a different church to disgrace with my precence,” she says, having been through this on many occasions. He blinks slowly, then concedes, his palm facing up in surrender. But that watery smile stays on his face. 

“Alright, I won’t ask, then.” He tries to pat her head, which he can only reach, in his great shortness, because Tamara is sitting down, but she ducks out of the way in time. “You know you’re always welcome, if you change your mind.” 

“Whatever.” She unplugs her bass, packs it in its shitty nylon case, and contemplates whether or not she wants to bring the basket too. Actually, she will-- she knows just what to do with it. She smirks. “Later, weird old man.” 

“Goodbye, deary!” 

And she’s off. Not too many people around on weekdays, thank god. She can hear the muffled sound of a vacuum somewhere far off. Light comes in from the stained glass windows, painting the carpet in cherry reds and bright yellows. Tamara doesn’t remember when she got here last night, but it hasn’t been more than a few hours, she thinks. Hopefully she’s not late to Ell’s coffee thing. Well, not too late. She’s alright with being a little late on principle. 

England being England, anyone could guess what the weather was like. Tamara pulls her hood over her head and walks faster through the drizzle. Got to get Sampson somewhere dry. The old bass was on its last legs, barely playable. The elements might just do it in. 

A glance to her left, a glance to her right. Some odd turns here and there, a misplaced foot in a puddle up to her knees. Long brick alleyways, and the occasional cover under shop front awnings. She’ll admit, she’s always been cautious of the people around her. Never know who you can trust, what somebody is up to for their own selfish business. But lately it’s been much worse. Every shadow, every wayward glance feels like _her_. Even now, she feels so strongly as though… 

She turns around, but no one’s there. She could have sworn. 

She knows what she’s doing is risky. She knows she’s made far more enemies than friends lately. She knows there could be very real consequences to bashing a sadistic as fuck actual straight up military leader. ( _Military Leader_. If she didn’t despise Tori with every molecule in her body she might be impressed by how far she’s come.) 

How much longer will things be ‘normal?’ How much longer until this war hits England as hard as the countries it’s stolen? How much longer until it hits her, Ell, and Matilda? How much longer until her actions put them in danger? She shakes that thought away. Never, if she can help it. She’ll… well, she doesn’t know what she’ll do. She’ll think of something. She always does. 

The cafe she’s looking for comes into view, finally. A little cow is painted on the sign, and a tall pot of flowers sits next to the door. She hesitates, not sure if she wants to go through with it after all. She can’t keep meeting them like this, she knows. She can’t keep up the pretense much longer, can’t keep her growing relevance from piercing their lives. Is it selfish of her to want to keep it up, if only for a little while longer? It’s been weeks since they've been together. She inhales, exhales. Just a little while longer. She checks her surroundings from the corner of her eye. Nothing amiss, for now. If she’s going in, she’s going in. 

Tamara walks up and presses her face to the window, squishing her nose on the glass, looking around for Ell and Matilda. She spots them at a table in the far back corner, and dedicates herself to making embarrassing gestures until they notice her, which doesn’t take long. She manages to pull a few disturbed looks from innocent bystanders, too, which is always a plus. Matilda is the first to realize she's there, standing up and waving her arm delightedly like a puppy left at home. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, tied by a ribbon scrunchie, resembling a cheerleader style. She seems to call Tamara’s name, which gets Ell to look up from the notepad in front of her, though Tamara doesn’t know how she sees anything with her choppy bangs like a curtain over her eyes. Ell blows a raspberry in Tamara’s direction, then beckons for her to come over. 

She heads inside, snickering at the disgruntled scowl of a businessman at the counter. Ell grabs Matilda by the sleeve, tugging her back down to her seat. Tamara plops the weird old man’s basket onto the table. 

“Brought a gift.” 

Ell looks surprised. “Oh, that’s nice. Thanks, Tam.” She opens the basket. “Piss off, actually.” 

Matilda squints down at the slimy abomination, framing her chin with her pointer and index fingers like a pensive scholar. “Do you think that fish looks a bit like me?”

Ell shrugs. “Do you… want it to?” 

“Practically twins,” Tamara says. 

“Yes, I thought so too. His name--” She pauses, mulling it over. “--is Marmaduke.” She nods, self assuredly, then shuts the lid. “And we will bury him very soon so he stops smelling so bad.” 

“Well.” Ell picks up her pen and taps it on her temple. “He’ll still smell bad, we just won’t be able to smell it.” 

“As long as the smell is gone, I say.”

Tamara feigns upset, holding her hand to her forehead, though she can’t bring herself to sound any less deadpan than usual. “Matilda, I’m shocked, you want to bury our new best friend?” 

“Don’t make me feel bad, it’s what must be done.” 

Ell laughs, leaning back in her chair. “I see. Well, if you’re that serious about it, we’ll, of course, assist in the dirty deed.” 

“Don’t call it dirty! That makes me feel worse.” 

“You said he smells,” Tamara points out. 

“Oh no! I’m awful.” 

“It’s fine, Matilda, we’ll handle it after coffee.” Ell turns to Tamara. “We went ahead and ordered for you, by the way.” 

“Cool.” 

They sit in silence for a while. Ell sketching furiously, Matilda playing on her phone, and Tamara drying her bass case off with paper napkins. At some point, Ell lifts up the sketchbook to show a picture of Tamara and Matilda sitting together in a giant rubbish bin. Matilda is connected to a speech bubble that says ‘we’ve bin expecting you.’ Tamara rolls her eyes and Matilda takes a photo of the drawing, but cropped so that only her face is in it. 

A worker walks up to the counter with two hot chocolates and a coca cola bottle. “Number 23, under… that’s so immature, I’m not saying that. Your drinks are ready.” 

“Oh, that’s us,” Ell says. She must've waited to have her drink with theirs, the sap. 

“Sweet.” They walk up to the counter. Tamara pops open her flask and pours some vodka into the cocoa. It doesn’t really taste that great but by god, does it make her feel cool. 

Ell takes charge. “Let’s go on then, the weather’s nice for a funeral today.” 

Outside is, of course, quite bare of plots of land to bury jellied eels in. They walk for a while, but are met only with pavement and small squares of city grass. Again, Tamara feels eyes on her, feels hairs raise on the back of her neck. She whips around. But nothing's there, no one watching from a window, no one suspicious. Only the regular flow of people bustling through life. Her head is groggy and groggier the more she drinks. She's worrying too much about this, isn't drinking for _forgetting_ about problems? 

After nearly ten minutes of intense searching, Matilda swoons, falling back onto Tamara, who only catches her because she isn’t thinking about it. She's kinda hefty, and Tamara stumbles back. “There’s nowhere good. Where will we bury poor Marmaduke?” 

Tamara pushes Matilda away, then shoves her hands in her pockets. Ell stops walking, then slams her fist onto her palm. “I’ve got an idea.” 

She runs up ahead and stops at a street gutter on the curb. Tamara thinks she knows what Ell means, and she doesn’t know whether the idea is more funny or stupid. 

Matilda cries out in triumph. “The sewer! Ell, it’s perfect. We’ll be sending him back home." She brings the basket over and squats in front of the dark, gaping rectangular hole. Tamara almost expects to see a clown down there. Matilda clears her throat, and begins a small speech. 

“Farewell, dear Marmaduke. Didn’t know you too well, but you were like a brother to me. A very handsome and smelly brother. That’s what I imagine my brother would be like, if I had a brother.” 

She nods to Ell. Ell steps forward. 

“Er, you were okay, for a lukewarm bowl of fish jelly, I guess. Maybe I’ll base a character in my comic after you.” 

Matilda turns to Tamara, eyes big and unrelenting. Tamara picks some earwax out of her ear and flicks it to the side. 

“Eh, good riddance.”

Ell grins. “Tamara! Say something heartfelt, it’s a funeral after all.” 

“I’m not doing that.” 

Seemingly content with getting anything out of Tam at all, Matilda flips the basket on its side, trying to get a good angle for the dish to slide out, but it sticks to the inside like glue. She shakes it a few times, turns it this way and that, but nothing works. Tamara could help, but it’s amusing to watch. 

Matilda shoves it through the hole, but it gets a bit stuck. She pushes at it, trying to get it free. Tamara cheers her on internally. _Push, push_ \-- wait, whoops. The basket disappears. A resounding plop sounds a few seconds later. 

“Oh, your basket. Hope it wasn’t important,” says Matilda. 

“Eh, it was someone else’s.”

Ell gasps. “Well, in that case, we’d better get it back! Tamara, I’ll grab onto your ankles and lower you down. Matilda will anchor me from behind.” 

“Why can’t Matilda go into the street gutter? She dropped it.”

“I just bought this overcoat, you see.” 

“That’s the same jacket you wear every day.” 

“You don’t know that for sure.” 

Ell pokes Tamara in the chest. “It’s _your_ basket Tamara, _you’re_ going in the street gutter.” 

“Lame.” 

She squeezes in head first, immediately accosted by a spider web. Though they take it slow, the drop is violent, and she almost rams her chin on the on the concrete wall inside. She can feel all the blood draining downward as she hangs like a bat in the dark. She blows her bangs out of her face, has her phone out, turns it on flashlight mode, scanning the area. It’s like a void, black as her own eyes. The phone barely illuminates anything, but the smallest edge of the basket handle is caught by the light, poking out from the bottom like a hand crying for help. 

Ell calls out to her. “Hey, do you see-wer it?” 

“I see-wer you getting sent to the hospital in the near future, you sorry excuse for a human being. But, yeah, it’s down here. A little lower.” They inch her downwards. Ell’s fingers press into her calves.

“Close enough?” 

“Lower.” 

“Close enough?” 

It’s so distant. So unusually distant. How deep does this thing go? She can’t reach it.

“It’s too far. I don’t think we’ll manage. Honestly, it was only some weird old man’s. Doubt he’ll even remember it exists.”

“An old man’s? Oh, Tamara, tell me you weren’t thinking of giving up. Poor old man,” Ell chastises. 

“Whatever. I can’t reach it. Also, this kind of sucks.” 

“Well, I’ll go too. Matilda, you can handle it, right? You’re quite strong.” 

“Why yes, I certainly like to think so.” 

“In what world?” Tam grumbles. Her head spins. 

“Rude! I’ll give you all a showing when we’re out of this mess. Wait ‘till you see my olympian muscles. Like a statue, some have said.” Tamara is certain that ‘some’ here means ‘myself and the portraits of myself that I occasionally roleplay with and assign self-congratulatory characteristics to when I’m alone in my room.’ Tamara can't see Matilda from down here, but she knows for certain that Matilda is wiggling her eyebrows in that annoying way she does. 

“If you drop us, I’m going to laugh at you for the rest of our lives,” she warns. 

She can hear Ell lowering herself onto her belly, feels the sudden slack and her stomach leaps as she dangles in the air. She almost drops the phone. Almost. 

“Close enough?” asks Matilda, voice straining. They’re closer but the basket isn’t. 

Ell responds, her grip beginning to shake. “Well… I, the weird thing is, it’s like it’s getting further away.” She must see it too. 

Tamara feels a sudden dread grow. “It’s not worth it, pull us back--”

And then she’s weightless. To Ell’s credit, she doesn’t let go until after they start falling. Matilda screams the loudest. Tamara is beyond caring at this point. She braces herself for impact, barely holding her breath in time before she, along with her phone, is submerged in dirty rain water. She’s glad at least that she left Sampson up on the surface. No one with half a mind would steal it, though the drizzle is a concern. 

The water isn’t very deep, maybe half a meter high, moving slowly, just enough to buffer their fall, not enough to keep it from hurting entirely. Tamara can’t see anything, but she can hear Ell and Matilda coughing and splashing about. 

“Well, good news is I got the basket,” shouts Matilda. 

“That’s something to be grate-ful for,” Ell shouts even louder. 

“I hate you guys,” Tamara shouts as loud as she is capable of. 

“No you don’t,” says Ell. A crack and a shake later and the tunnel is illuminated in the pale green light of a glow stick bracelet. Of course Ell has a glow stick bracelet. They all huddle closer together. “Hey, does this place feel strange, or is it just me?” 

“We’re in a sewer.” Tamara throws her arms out wide, as if to say ‘look around you.’ 

“Tamara’s right, it’s a sewer and it’s awful down here and what if there’s spiders? Or worse: clowns.” Matilda shudders. 

“Hey, I was thinking about clowns too!” Tamara holds out her hand for a rare high five. 

“Woah, it’s like our minds are connected!” Matilda returns the high five, but instead of letting go at the end, she just awkwardly slides her fingers between Tamara’s like they’re holding hands. 

Tamara yanks her hand away, wiping it on her pants. “If that ever happens, promise you’ll kill me.” 

Ell frowns. “No, no, guys, I’m serious, listen…” 

And it’s here, when Ell calls everyone to listen, that Tamara begins to tune them out. Something else is on her mind, the same thing that’s always on her mind these days. Maybe in another time she could have been more engaged (or more drunk), but she’s haunted by the one thing missing from their adventure. The one person. 

“...Some kind of cult gathering…” 

If Tori was here, she would've joked that Tamara knows all about cults, being a former Jehova's Witness. Tamara would've glared daggers, bring up Tori's strange fascination with guns and communism, shoved her aside. Definitely not as amusing now as it would've been back then. 

"...And then I was like, 'no, _your_ mom's gay.' But like, not in a rude way." 

They wade through the water. It’s cold, but not as cold as Tori’s heart. Perhaps that was a bit edgy. Tamara shakes her head. On second thought, it’s not edgy enough. 

"See! I told you there'd be spiders!" 

What’s she doing down in the sewer getting chased by spiders when Tori’s up there playing chaos lord? She always feels like she’s wasting time. Like she isn’t doing enough. 

“Oh my, that’s a lot of skeletons.” 

She shouldn’t even be here with them. Acting like everything's okay. Every second they spend together is another second Ell and Matilda could be targeted. Another second she could be making music, could be scheming, could be doing _anything_ to stand up to Tori. 

“Hey, look, it’s Marmaduke. Hello, smelly boy.” 

What should she put in her next song? What would drive the nail home? What else can she do to make it _hurt_? 

“Wrong way, wrong way!” 

Why did she agree to meet them? Why did she come out here? Why did she take that _stupid_ weird old man’s basket and drink that _stupid_ hot chocolate and do the _stupid_ fake funeral and fall in the _stupid_ sewer and-- She closes her eyes, chest heavy. Takes a swig from her flask. 

“Tamara, what do you think?” someone asks. 

“Eh.” That’s a normal enough response for her. 

They escape the predicament, eventually. Always do. They don’t talk about the Red Leader, even though Tamara knows they’re all thinking about her. Or maybe she's just projecting. Tamara wonders how many sketches in Ell’s book were of that rebellion she likes to daydream about. She wonders if Matilda is developing strength so she can defend her pretty face. Tamara wonders if she herself is useful, if she’ll ever change anything or if she’s like a tree in the woods that no one is around to hear. If she’s like a tantrum-throwing child in a grocery store. On days like these, the Red Leader seems so much bigger than them. Not in any of the sexy ways you can be bigger than someone, either. 

Ugh, a bus is a brewing pot for stupid thoughts. (Everywhere Tamara is is a brewing pot for stupid thoughts.) Dim street light paints buildings like a comic book. The walls shake around her, daring her to try and rest her head on the window at the small cost of a concussion. Light chatter might as well be trumpet blasts at this hour. At least the seats are somewhat comfy, disregarding the stains. Brakes squeal, pulling up to a lonely stop by the water. 

The docks creak under her feet and she’s all alone, Sampson recovered and strapped to her shoulder. She’s shivering in the rain, which has grown much heavier, proportionate to her mood, on the journey home. Well, the journey back to her boat. Affectionately named S.S. Gun. It’s not a steamship, S.S. just sounds fucking awesome. 

The marina is misty, frigid, and crowded, marine vessels almost stacked on top of each other, poking out of the sea. She’d say like sardines in a can, if Ell hadn’t first and ruined it for her. She passes a few people, all with umbrellas, the bastards. Someone rams into her shoulder, mustering a half-hearted apology. She musters a half-hearted ‘whatever.’ 

After some navigating she finds her beloved Gun. Boarding is tricky, she doesn’t have a ramp out and the gap shrinks and widens as the boat bobs up and down. She gets into a lunging position and leaps across, gripping the slick railing tight. It's a race against time as the cold erases her motor functions. She ducks under it and rolls onto the deck. She crawls across the wet surface and unlocks the tiny door that leads into her living area, wriggling through, and turns on a battery powered light, shrugs off her hoodie, then her shirt. 

Empty cans and bottles twinkle in her peripheral like fairy lights. A framed picture of her friends sits on the counter, next to a radio. Some band posters hang on the walls, peeling at the corners. A dog-eared book on the table. The area is bare, a bit trashed from drunken mishaps, but neglected, for the most part. This isn’t her real home, after all. She still has a flat in the building with Ell and Matilda. This is just where… She goes, sometimes. 

Most of the time, lately. 

She starts the generator for some heat, locks the door behind her, then looks around for her favorite pair of big fuzzy socks that no one knows about or will ever know about so help them. But something is amiss, because she can only find one. That's kinda weird. She always keeps them together, they’re one of her most prized possessions.

She rummages through her closet, looking for another good pair, but all she can find is singles, and doesn’t that make this the most depressing goddamn day ever. She groans. Either someone stole exactly one half of all her socks or she had one hell of a drunken laundry extravaganza. She doesn’t doubt that she could have randomly thrown them off the boat in an alcohol-induced haze, or sold them on craigslist, or something equally stupid. Ugh, past-Tamara. She burritos herself in a frayed blanket, discontent.

She's hungry but her tiny fridge is bare, except for two whole fish she managed to catch over the weekend. Two weeks ago. Maybe the weird old man would appreciate them. On second thought, she doesn't want to be the one responsible for poisoning him, he can do that just fine on his own, thanks. What's it called when you accidentally murder an old person with rotten seafood, she wonders? 

There's some leftover chocolate biscuits, at least. As long as she has biscuits, she’ll be alright. She opens her pantry, only to find it empty too. Seriously, fuck herself. If she's gonna eat biscuits, she wants to remember the experience, god damn it! 

She lays Sampson out on the table, stacks some of the papers, takes down her ponytail, feels the hair brush against her shoulders, heavy with gel. If only she could erase that itch, that gut-feeling you get when someone's got their eye on you. She's felt that way so much lately. Ever since she started singing. Like... Like Tori is there. Like she'd pop in and, and stab her or something. Rise from the ocean in a megabot, pick up her boat, and yeet it into the sun. Like she'd wake up and Tori would be sitting on top of her, choking her in her sleep. 

Or maybe some crazy Red Army fanatic would hunt her down, find out where she lives, try to hurt her. Worst-case scenario, they find out about her friends, track down Ell and Matilda too. Maybe even a genuine fan might be compelled to do something creepy, if they cared enough. 

But she has to tell herself to give it up, at some point. Because as much as Tori has wormed her way into her life, she knows Tori hasn't thought about Tamara in years, doesn't give a single shit about her. And she probably doesn't mean that much to her fans or the fanatics, either. She's not making as much of a difference as she wishes she was. And that's worse than the idea of someone following her, honestly. 

She flashes an honorary middle finger, in case anyone’s watching, though she knows no one is. Maybe it's more to herself, than anything. She turns on the radio, singing along to songs she doesn’t know the words to. She lays on the sofa, ideas swimming through her head. The boat rocks back and forth to the rhythm of the waves, lulling. Wind carries shrieks and howls, like a banshee wandering through the storm. Rain thunders on the deck above her. She hadn’t run out of bottles, thank fuck. She’s warmed by the drink. 

Lying around drunk off her ass comes easy someone so existentially exhausted, so at home in a place of no control. The weight of vitriol and futility pin her to the cushions. She sings and drinks and scrolls through social media on her nearly-destroyed phone and fantasizes about all the ways she could punch Tori's insufferable face, entirely unaware of the cameras that gaze at her resting form, or the surveillance team crawling through the marina, one half of her socks and a quarter-full tin of biscuits in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOB SHOE MONEY DOWN THE DRAIN


End file.
